München: Ich falle aus allen Wolken, I fall from all clouds

I’m a fool, I didn’t just visit Munich—I fell for it, without a parachute, hard, the way you fall for someone who breaks your heart and makes you thank them for it. I could have just gotten over it but that would kill Art.

The city was my cop, my dreamer, my Faye Wong in a diner at 3 a.m., Yes! serving up longing with a side of chaos. Built for bad romances—the kind I can't resist.

Mark Twain probably said it best; “Travel kills prejudice”, I showed up here thinking one thing and had those notions turned on their heads. To set things straight, I was rude and dismissive about Munich. So, Rome and Berlin, I admit, I was wrong and thank you for pointing me this way.

Alright, so when Europe called, I wasn't looking for some frantic, edgy Berlin scene. Nah, my Europe’s the slow burn. The head might scream for some kind of manufactured thrill, but down deep, the soul, that's craving something real. So, I ditched the edgy itch and gave in to the gut pull!  

I arrived here without a script, man, in the heart of Bavaria, chasing something I couldn't name. Call it silly or call it scheisse—you wouldn't be far off. You roll into Marienplatz expecting the postcard cutouts: gingerbread houses, oompah bands, and tourists sweating in leather pants. And sure, it’s all there. But there’s a subtext. A million Gothic spires stabbing at the sky and locals moving with a quiet confidence, like they’re guarding the secret to life and have no intention of sharing. Right on cue as the clock hits noon, the Glockenspiel does its little mechanical dance, figures twirling like clockwork drunks at last call. But if you stand still long enough, the history sneaks up on you. This square has been the city's heart since the 12th century; it's seen markets, executions, and the whole messy human parade. Every cobblestone a bite of history, each corner a sip of something medieval and alive. Munich! Willkommen in der Weltstadt mit Herz!

First move is always the same, drop the bag and head for the market. In this town, that means the Viktualienmarkt. I put on my communal lens and let München herself lead the way. It is almost April so spring’s here and everyone is out, clutching a glass of the same neon-orange liquid: Aperol Spritz. I’ll admit, I was late to the party on this one. Prosecco, Aperol, and soda with a slice of orange—it’s a sunset in a glass. Sweet nectar, oh god that is good! Not quite Negroni kick but perfect for the outdoor afternoon stroll refreshment.

Now back to the drift. Half-lost and aimless, cutting through the Old Town as the Frauenkirche’s domes loomed overhead, their shadows stretching across the stones like hands reaching for something they’ll never catch. It is a masterpiece—heavy, holy, and slightly intimidating. You stand there with the rest of the crowd, neck craned back, mouth open, waiting for some crumb of the divine. But not sure if it’s a trick of the light, there is a haunting duality here; the place is centuries old, yet it carries a sharp, modern edge, like a medieval heart beating inside a glass, concrete-and-steel chest.

Few more blocks of unconstructed chat and we hit the doors of “Fraunhofer Wirtshaus”. This place isn't auditioning for your love; it’s an institution, two things matter here, high art and enough meat! And we aimed for the throat, Rostbratwurstel grilled pork sausages on mashed potatoes, Schweinsbraten: Roast pork with crackling skin which feels like a sin, Gulasch and Geschmorte, I’m keeping these ingredients off the record just in case my mother is reading.! And wash the sin away with Franziskaner! My favorite beer! Rich head with banana and clove notes! To finish? Kaiserschmarrn. A beautiful, chaotic mess of pancake and soufflé that’s fluffy, crispy, and tender all at once. The place or the food is not trying to be cool. It's just... there. It's simple. Honest. Stupidly perfect. You earn a meal like this, you savor it. And tomorrow, you'll probably do it all again. Good night, Gute Nacht!

The next morning, we pick up right where we left the script! A slow stroll to the second pilgrim, “Drei Mühlen”, for some Weißwurstfrühstück. Look, let’s be honest: at first glance the sausage looks like a mummified relic of the male anatomy. But you get past the optics, peel back the skin, and bite into a weisswurst— it’s soft, delicate blend of veal and parsley that melts away—and dip it in sweet mustard that bites back. Yessss! this is breakfasting, no noon bells yet! To balance the sweetness, there is Beer! Augustiner Helles, cold and crisp as alpine runoff. Again, simple. Germans don't fuck around when it comes to their beer and sausage; they refined it over centuries while the rest of us were still figuring out fire. It’s a strange, beautiful start to a day that’s already half-gone.

Turns out, today is game day. And if you ask which sport? We have clearly never met. the Allianz Arena—a glowing, modern spaceship that proves along with precision engineering and heavy lager, Ze Germans have mastered this beautiful game, and I am here to see Thomas Müeller, his final season. He is everything I wish to be off the pitch, A Raumdeuter! space interpreter, as he calls it. Almost a philosophy, searching for a sense of place everyone else misses. For now, the interpretation is simple. Find the space in my own crowded soul for one more bratwurst and another liter of cold beer.  

Watching 70,000 souls roar at once certainly makes you wonder: who are these people, really? Nearly a century ago if I put it in mildest way, they were the world’s warning label. Today, they are the poster child of cosmopolitan, tolerant and progressive Europe. To get the real pulse, I like hitting museums—not the classic relic joints, but the modern ones where you can gauge the crowd's vibe. Enter “Pinakothek der Moderne”and “Haus der Kunst”, house of modern art. After hours of brain-dead stare, it is clear as white walls, Avant-grade is still alive and kicking here. Pushing and drawing you into boundaries that haven’t even been drawn yet. Same deal with Music scene and the youth-Vital and unfiltered.

Tonight, I’m joined with some sharp young locals at “Lo Studente”, slicing into pizza over opinions, rants and ideas. talks flowing free as beer and then the conversation shifted to “Steinthal 16”, an establishment known for one thing, massive Schnitzel pork! Thin slice of loin breaded and pan-fried to golden crisp. A distant cousin to Japanese katsu but zero concern for the kawaii part, just big enough to cover your face! Porco Rosso, my friend, they adore you here. But trust me, you don't want this kind of affection. I concur with the menu: It is not safe. Keep flying, you don’t want this kind of heat.

Night’s far from done, we bounce through more bars and finally plant our ass at “SODA”, a shadowy speakeasy joint where lights are low and vibes are high. Look, traveling alone? It’s a blast in its own way. You move at your own speed, eat when you’re hungry, drink when you’re thirsty, I’ve logged plenty of miles of it—and it’s good. But the stuff that actually sticks, the moments that tattoo themselves on the inside of your skull? Those almost always involve other people. It’s the conversations at 2 a.m at a dive bar. Take right now. I’m sitting here at a table that barely speaks English and this girl across the table leans in and asks, dead serious: “Is it possible to love only one side?”.

I catch a glimpse of my greasy mug in the polished tile behind her. Solo as usual. And crack up inside. Not the self-love crap but here I am, full of whatever that passes for love nowadays, sloshing around like an overfilled stein, and there’s nobody to lock eyes and prost.

I look at her, grin like an idiot, and say, “Ja. Yes. Absolutely.” Language wall blocked the deep philosophy, but everyone gets the delivery when the bill of life comes due. For Now, the question landed like sternum shot-enough to end the night!

The next day, like a glutton for punishment, you wake up and decide ditching the city for the mountains. Munich’s not just old building, heritage institutions and local markets-nah, an hour south lies the Infuriatingly beautiful—Bavarian Alps, Tegernsee Valley specifically. From far a seduction call but up close, a dare. Crisp air slapping your face, peaks smirking down, trees staring like they’ve already judged your cardio. the kind that makes you question every bad decision that led you to these tight pants and soft lungs. Twenty minutes in, sweat's pouring, egos shattered. And just when you’re ready to negotiate with God—the valley cracks open—dense forest giving way to electric blue water, clouds drifting lazy, ridges sharp, slicing through your thoughts. Suddenly the suffering makes sense. This isn’t about nature. It’s about earning the view.

By the time you stagger into “Berggasthof Neureuth”, humbled and soaked, that Apfelsaft hits like redemption, not indulgent. Food seals it Spinatknödel drowned in Parmesan, Kaiserschmarrn fluffy as a fresh snowfall. Congrats, you survived. Tegernsee doesn't give a damn if you're spiritual, athletic, or lost — it just strips you down to breath, muscle, and appetite. And honestly? That’s plenty.

But mountains don't keep you forever. City's calling and beer's whispering. Tonight's Nockherberg at Paulaner—Starkbierfest, strong as a mule kick, and you're diving in headfirst. Full immersion, no half-assing. Probably the only Indian in full lederhosen, looking like a fool for the cause. But owning it every second. The hall smells of live yeast, old oak, and centuries of spilled secrets. It’s a local fortress, blissfully hidden from the typical Oktoberfest circus.

You enter the beer garden thinking you’ve seen crowds before. You haven’t. This isn’t a gathering; it’s a coup for gravity-defying joy, a collective agreement that tonight, decorum can take a long walk. Long wooden tables, just elbows to elbows, laughter, and the unspoken rule that once you sit, you’re in it together. The local band Die Kirchdorfer, live and loud, doesn’t ask for your attention; it takes it, drags it across the benches. You look around and realize the locals aren’t watching the band. They’re watching each other. This is social choreography, rehearsed over generations. Then it happens. One person stands on a table. Then another. And suddenly the tables aren’t furniture anymore — they’re infrastructure. Platforms for release. The wood flexes under boots and a confidence you can’t buy. The tables were built for this. Munich knew. Munich always knows.

At some point — and this is always how it happens — you’re no longer observing. You’re in motion. On a bench. On a table. Someone points. Someone laughs. And before you can question your life choices, you’re closer to the stage than you ever planned to be, caught in the slipstream of joy. The band grins, this isn’t about excess. It’s about permission. Permission to be loud, off-key, unguarded. To belong without auditioning. the supposedly reserved city, lets its hair down and doesn’t bother picking it back up.

Eventually, the night does what it always does. the grip loosens and music winds down, you step out for some air, ringing ears, tired smile, knowing you caught something real and fleeting. You leave quietly. Full. Tomorrow can judge you. Tonight already did and it let you dance.

The last day is always a knife-fight between the head and the heart. it’s when the unconscious finally screams itself awake. At the end, Did I fall in love? Nope, It’s even worse. At a small café Boulangerie, I saw a girl whose hair caught the morning light like a frame straight out of Chungking Express. We didn't speak—we didn't have to. Her eyes air dropped the cold truth: 'Stranger, you’re home, but you’ll never stay.' Munich was doing that to me— wrapping its arms around me for a beautiful suffocation. But I wasn't finished yet. I took the long, slow walk along the Isar banks to the city center, retracing my steps for a final meal. Currywurst: Sliced bratwurst drowned in a tomato-curry sauce and dusted with curry powder. An abomination you ask.  No, it’s modern art on a plate, carefully curated mess! Picasso! I like it!

The ending is vicious; Grey sky over Marienplatz. I’m the fool on Hauptbahnhof, eyes on the rails, knowing this is it. No promises made. My bag heavier with questions than souvenirs. In my head, it’s all Wong Kar-Wai—slow zooms, saturated colors, but no soundtrack, just the city humming like a bad meal that won't go down. Train leaves in two, door slam, one last look. Not sure If I left something in Munich… or worse, if Munich left something in me.

It’s funny how silence is the language of the universe, and everything else—every word, every story—is just a cheap translation, a half-drunk, half-wit scribble trying to catch the infinite, including this pitiful attempt.

To Munich,

Another life? Maybe us? Maybe I lived here? Right? Maybe did those things? Maybe then we would know? What could have been? The Food. Friends. Love. They’re all there, in the wordless language of Munich’s streets, shadows and damped morning air. But just like emotions I’m a visitor too, yeah, and we’re both strangers to the answers.

Oh Munich, my dark side of the moon—you’ve ruined me without a promise, you took my days but added life in return and I’m grateful. I’ll be back, chasing the maybe, the might’ve-been, the us that never was. Until then, I’ll not forget how you look, felt or tasted. I’ll carry the limerence—like a rose I bought but never really handed. Wilting, but alive. Loving every second of this ache. It feels like a double hug but cuts like a goodbye.